She walked toward the church and noticed the Womyn’s Workout Space. There was a window display featuring T-shirts imprinted, “Potential Rape Survivor,” for fifteen dollars. Just to the right of the display, at the main church entrance, a man in a rumpled linen suit slouched against the wall genially taking in the neighborhood. She placed him just over sixty, but he had a quick smile and there was a hard liveliness in his blue eyes. This one had plenty of good years left in him, Story decided.
“Tell me you’re not here to join the nutcracker sweets over there, darlin’.” Frank straightened up and nodded toward the window display. “You look too tender for that crowd.”
Story glanced back at the Womyn’s gym. “Seems a little paranoid, and they could use a spelling lesson,” she answered. The man appeared to be a borderline mouth-breather but he had a gentle lilt to his western twang that made him seem both smart and kind. His face had the warmth of age, like an old wooden desktop. Yet his features were sharp. She could tell he could be an ass kicker if he had to be. “You wouldn’t happen to know where Mr. Streeter is by any chance, would you?”
He looked at her for a moment and then shook his head. “Who wants to know?”
“Obviously, I do.”
“And you are?” His voice stayed gentle, even.
“Story Moffatt.” She stepped forward and held out her hand.
He shook it carefully. “Frank Dazzler. Your friend in the bail-bonds business, darlin’.”
At that moment, Streeter walked out the front door into the June sunshine. Story saw him come from behind Frank and immediately recognized him as Brad Tessmer. A smug grin took over her face, like she just stomped him at Yahtzee.
“And is this my friend in the bounty-hunting business or in the auto-body business?” she asked.
Streeter’s eyes widened, but only for a second. “Well, well.” He smiled broadly. “Squash, anyone?”
She was disappointed that he stayed so calm. She wanted to see some remorse, or at least a hint of surprise. Big guys always seem so cocky. “You work in a church. I suppose that makes you the insurance company’s savior.”
“You two kids know each other?” Frank moved away from the wall, looking back and forth at them. “Am I missing something here?”
Streeter looked at him and said, “It’s a long story, Frank, but she’s not about bonds. She’s that deal I did for Swannie.”
“Yeah, Frank.” Story’s face hardened. “I’m that deal. I don’t know, maybe I came to the wrong place.”
“That’s possible,” Streeter said. “Why are you here?”
“Is there somewhere we can talk in private?” she asked.
Frank shot both hands into his pants pockets and he rattled his car keys. “Use my office. I gotta head over to the jail. Go on and grab the office. It looks like you two kids got things to discuss.”
Streeter shifted to the side of the church door and held out his left arm, indicating that Story should come inside. She walked up the steps and into the building. The large foyer for the main church had two doors inside. One went straight ahead, into the church itself, which was now used by the Womyn for their self-defense studio. The altar overlooked the workout gym and served as a combination lectern and reference library. The second foyer door, the one on the right, opened into a short hallway that led to the old Sunday school and assorted smaller rooms. That’s where Frank’s office was, with his apartment behind it farther down the hall in the old rectory. The office itself had the weird atmosphere of a combination holy place and government work space. There was thick, flowered carpeting, and rich mahogany cabinets and beams, yet the desk and the few other furnishings were strictly state-issued. Pale Formica and painted metal.
“I love what you’ve done with this room.” Story glanced around. “It looks like a parochial mental hospital.”
“Somehow, I knew you were the type to have opinions on everything.” Streeter nodded for her to take a chair in front of the desk.
“I’m not a type, opinionated or otherwise.” She sat down.
“What brings you to our humble little parish?” He moved slowly behind the desk and sat down in Frank’s overstuffed chair.
“Mr. Dazzler is your partner?”
“Basically. It’s a loose arrangement. Why?”
“He seems a little rough around the edges. All that darlin’ stuff. Maybe a little patronizing to women.”
“Astounding. You spend two minutes with the man and you’ve already got him pegged. Look, Frank’s from the old school. He calls women darling because he always has and because he likes them. He’s just trying to be friendly. And you’d be rough around the edges, too, if you ran a bail-bonds business. Frank Dazzler got me started in this racket and he’s a decent man. Honest, beyond question. And he’ll do anything for you once he likes you. Anything.”
“I didn’t mean to criticize, Streeter. By the way, what’s your full name?”
“Streeter’s full enough.”
She just shrugged, obviously not amused. “Well, Streeter whatever, you caused me problems and you cost me money.”
He hoped she hadn’t come just to complain. “That’s what they hired me to do. How’d you find out who I am and where to get a hold of me?”
“Your friend Mr. Swanson provided me with that. He told me you work with Frank Dazzler, so I just came here on a hunch. Do you live around here?”
He didn’t answer and instead made a mental note not to work for the adjuster again. Streeter was highly secretive about where he lived. He was protective of his entire life. There were precious few ways to track him. No credit cards, no insurance of any kind. He subscribed to no magazines or newspapers, and belonged to no organizations. Streeter banked through Frank, so he had no accounts in his name; his two cars were registered and insured under Frank’s name. His driver’s license was under the name of someone he knew who more or less matched his description and had died years ago. Even his half-ownership of the church was a side arrangement with the bondsman, so his name appeared on no city property-tax rolls or utility records. Because he dealt almost exclusively in cash and barter, the IRS barely knew how to reach him. Streeter told no one his address and he never got mail. His friends got hold of him through Frank’s business number, and his ex-wives never called. He had no children or siblings.
“So now you’re here to tell me to go to hell or what?” he finally said. “If you want money, you’re out of luck.”
“Actually, I’m here to give you some money. You’ll have to earn it, of course. But when someone does good work, I can appreciate that. Even if it causes me problems. You did good work, Mr. Streeter. As you know, I may have been somewhat less than totally candid with my insurance claim. I was pretty careful, but you got through all that. Now I want to see if you can help me. Show me that getting those pictures wasn’t a fluke. I need someone like you, so I thought, rather than getting someone like you, I may as well get the real thing.”
“I’ve been called worse, Ms. Moffatt.” What’s with this “fluke” crap?
“Please, you can call me Story. How would you like to get three thousand dollars up front for your time and have a chance to make a lot more down the road if we get what we’re after? By the way, how much did you get for those squash pictures?”
“That sounds promising, in answer to your first question. None of your business, in answer to your second. Tell me about this three-thousand-dollar proposition.”
“Fair enough.” She settled back into her chair. “Basically, I want you to find money. Do you do that kind of work?”
“An assets search? You mean find out someone’s net worth.”
“Not exactly. I’m talking about finding money that I think exists. It’s probably cash. It would have been left by someone who died a couple months ago. April 5 to be exact.”
“An estate?” Streeter frowned.
“You might say. I just know that Doug—the man who died—left valuables around, and I want to find them. I’ve trie
d everything I could think of with no results, so now it’s time to hire a professional. I’m told you do skip tracing. I figured if you can locate people then you can find things as well. I suppose I could get a private investigator, but, judging by what you did in my insurance case, I think you’ll do just fine.”
“I take it you were close enough to this Doug so you have a legal claim to his estate.”
“Definitely. I’m really the only beneficiary in his will. We lived together for the better part of the past three years. We were even thinking about getting married. Actually, we were thinking about it less as time went by.” She cocked her head to the side just a shade as she spoke. Cute but a little too affected. “We weren’t very close at the end, but he didn’t have any heirs and he was barely on speaking terms with his family.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“I don’t know. I never actually saw it but I’m estimating as high as six figures. Could be a couple hundred thousand. Maybe more. Certainly enough to make all this worthwhile.” She waved her hand in the air to indicate her being there discussing it with him. “Doug was a realtor and he also used to dabble in selling cocaine. I think he made a ton of money at both in the eighties in Boulder. Being a realtor up there, he knew a lot of the fast-trackers. To be honest, I think he did better at real estate than at cocaine, but he made out fine with both commodities. He dealt drugs until things got too hot for him there. You know, police poking around, his suppliers making threats. Just hassles in general. So he bailed out of the business about four years ago. At least he said he did. He moved to Denver and sold real estate here. He did pretty well, and then, about seven months ago, he got popped for possession with intent to sell. Major trouble, and it was the last thing our relationship needed. I had no idea he was still dealing.”
Streeter nodded like he believed her, but he kept thinking, Is she lying about not knowing or just stupid? Generally, drug dealers are about as subtle as a Madonna concert.
“Anyhow,” she continued, “we were just about to come apart at the seams when he totaled his Porsche one night. He was very drunk and going about a hundred out on the I-25.”
“And now he’s dead,” Streeter finished. “What makes you think he kept money around?”
“Well, for one thing, there were times when we needed quick cash and he always just went out and got it. And we’re talking about a couple of grand each time. Sometimes quite a bit more. He’d leave and then come back in an hour or less with the money.”
“You never questioned that? I take it you’re not a very inquisitive person.”
She frowned but continued. “Never look a gift horse in the mouth, Streeter. As I was saying, he also told me that when he was dealing up in Boulder he used to keep a large amount of cash in his house in case of a robbery. Drug dealers are easy marks for robbers. He called it ‘go-away money.’ Ready cash to make the robbers just go away. He considered it part of his operating costs.”
“If it was go-away money,” Streeter said, “why didn’t he keep it at your house? It wouldn’t do any good if there was a robbery and the money was sitting in a bank somewhere.”
“You’re right.” Story studied his face. “But I don’t think he was afraid of being ripped off anymore. I think it was just force of habit that he liked to have cash on hand.”
Streeter looked off for a moment. Then, “What about his personal belongings? I assume you went through all of them.”
“Many times. I couldn’t find anything, but you’re welcome to look. I went through the car some. Checked the inside, the underside. There wasn’t anything left of the engine compartment. Then I went through his office, the house. As I told you, he left everything to me. I get his half of the equity in our townhouse, some insurance money, and his personal belongings. He left this really nice clock, but not much else of value. I was thinking maybe he kept money in a safe-deposit box. Secure, but difficult to trace.”
“That’s possible,” Streeter said. “Could be he kept the key on his key chain or in his glove box.”
“Well, if he did, it won’t do us any good.” Story shifted in her seat. “That part of the car was demolished. The Porsche was very badly burned.”
“I suppose I could do a sweep of every bank within, say, a ten-mile radius of your house for a safe-deposit box. Where do you live?”
“Cherry Creek. You know, Creekside.”
“Yeah.” He automatically flashed on her in her gym clothes at the Creekside. He’d done that more than once over the past couple of weeks. “I’d need a letter that gives me authorization to find out if Doug had a box. What was his last name?”
“Shelton. Doug Shelton.”
“For three thousand, there’s plenty I can do. But this could easily take a hell of a lot of time.” His voice betrayed little, although he had raging doubts about this advertising woman who thought nothing of being “somewhat less than totally candid” with insurance companies and who so dispassionately hunted for a dead boyfriend’s money. Still, if she had cash up front, there was a challenge to working for her that intrigued him. Streeter’s last divorce had been final shortly after he moved into the church, and his last engagement was two years ago. He’d been keeping women at arm’s length ever since. This would be a chance for him to see if he could hold his own with someone like Story without acting like a hormone-crazed teenager.
“You said something about me having a shot at making more money.”
“It’s a little treasure-hunt incentive. If you find whatever we’re after, I’m willing to give you a quarter of it. That could add up if it’s what I think it is.”
“Why all the extra?”
“To keep you motivated. Do you think that’ll keep you motivated?”
Streeter leaned forward, skeptical but interested. “This could end up being a total waste of time. I hate wasting my time, but more than that I hate not getting paid for wasting my time. Usually, I work just for Frank, bringing in bail jumpers. Sometimes I free-lance, like with Swanson. And sometimes I do skip traces for friends. Mostly, I deal in cash, and that’s how it’d have to be with us. I’ll need five thousand to get started and you’ll just have to trust that I’m working for it. You don’t get any invoices or written reports. If I think I’ve worked my way through the five grand, I’ll ask for more and you can decide if you want to stay with me. And when we find this pot of gold, I get a third. Not a quarter. Your story has enough holes to read the newspaper through, and, if you’ll pardon my bluntness, it’s hard to believe anyone can be as dense about their boyfriend as you say you are about old Doug. But for five grand and a third of the action, I’m willing to work for someone that dense.”
Story stared at him for a long time. “It’s going to be a real pleasure working with you. I didn’t know what to expect from a bounty hunter, but I guess good manners and class don’t come with the territory.”
“Lady, with some of the vicious clowns I track down, manners and class are not a plus. Besides, how much class does it take to fake a neck injury for insurance money? I do this work because I’m good at it and there’s money to be made. And, to be absolutely honest, because my cooperative skills stink I have to work alone. Don’t let the church fool you. This isn’t missionary work. I get fed more horse manure in a week than most people hear in twenty years. But if the money’s good enough I can live with the manure. Farmers do it all the time.”
“My, aren’t we the cynic.” Her voice was as flat as her expression, but she had flushed visibly when he made the crack about the insurance fraud. “You’re sweeping me off my feet, Streeter.”
“Really? That wasn’t my intent. You must be easily swept.”
“As you get to know me better, you’ll find out that I’m not easily anything. You don’t think I’m telling the truth?”
“For three thousand, I’m not sure. For five thousand, it becomes less important. Listen, you’ll tell me what you tell me. But the more you hold back, the longer it’ll take me to find anything
.”
She finally nodded. “You’ll do, Streeter. We’ve got a deal. I’ll have your money for you in about two days.”
“Then I’ll start working in about three days. I can do the safe-deposit box check, but I have my doubts. I’ll want to look through his personal belongings, talk to his family and friends, and then work my way out.”
“You won’t find zilch with his family. They hadn’t talked to each other much in years. His mother’s some sort of religious-fundamentalist nut up in Wyoming, and he has a retarded, I mean mentally disabled, brother who lives with her. The mother almost disowned Doug because of the drug arrest. She only briefly came to the funeral, and even then she treated me like I was trash.”
“What did you expect? You’re the jaded broad living with her son the coke dealer. Out of wedlock, no less. She probably figured you led him astray. It’s easy for mothers to get into denial and blame other people for their children’s problems. Maybe I’ll save her for later. Did he have any hobbies?”
“He golfed some and played a little racquetball.” She thought for a moment. “It was strange. Doug was pretty superficial for the most part. Certainly not an intellectual. But he did go to the Denver Art Museum from time to time. I guess he had an eye for beauty.”
Streeter could see that, but at what cost? “Did you ever go with him?”
“No. I’m not big on art galleries. They seem so dead to me. He’d never talk about it, either. It was just kind of an interest of his. He liked to fix things, too. Or at least try. He liked to take things apart and see how they worked. Mechanical things, like toasters and VCRs. Trouble is, he wasn’t very good at it. Half the time he’d take apart what was broken and then end up calling a repairman or we’d have to go get a new one. That happened with the disposal and the stereo.”
Streeter Box Set Page 4